


Fist Bump

by WaterMe



Series: The SpideyPool Holiday Special [6]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (and then kink scene gone RIGHT), (kinda), Baby Sadist Peter Parker, Canadian Thanksgiving, Fisting, M/M, Spideypool Bingo 2020, Spinneret kink, Submissive Wade Wilson, Top Drop, We Do The Weird Stuff, dominant peter parker, excuse me sir there's feelings in my porn, kink scene gone wrong, no-safeword kink, polyamory (mentioned), “I can’t be a sadist — I’m Spider-Man!”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26979355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe
Summary: The Thanksgiving Incident.(That’s right, folks. It’s Canadian Thanksgiving, and Wade is about to getstuffed.)(For Spideypool Bingo, Free Space, ‘Spinneret Kink’, because that tag deserves its very own square)
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: The SpideyPool Holiday Special [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1705225
Comments: 42
Kudos: 189
Collections: Isn't it Bromantic?, Spideypool Bingo 2020 Round 2





	Fist Bump

**Author's Note:**

> CW: There’s a consent hiccup in the middle when they hit incompatible hard limits, but they figure it out <3
> 
> This is a prequel to everything published thus far in the Holiday Special, and, like the rest, can be read as a one-shot.
> 
> If you have everything I have ever written memorized (and gosh, who doesn’t?), you may remember a throwaway line from [Canada Day:](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25037383) “Peter pulled on a nitrile glove — they did _not_ want a repeat of the Thanksgiving Incident.”
> 
> Well, folks… it’s arrived.
> 
> Thanks to [TheRegalHarvester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRegalHarvester/pseuds/TheRegalHarvester), [AnGoose,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/pseuds/AnGoose) and [Atemluver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atemluver/pseuds/Atemluver) for the beta! Any additional mistakes I blame on that last edit with a pumpkin beer in my hand.

“W-wade, that’s r-really sensiti — omigod.”

“Yeah? You like it when I stroke it just like that?”

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit.”_

_thwip_

“Holy fuckballs, baby boy, that was _awesome.”_

“Uh, babe?”

“…what? What’s wrong?”

“…I think I’m… stuck.”

_*record scratch*_

Hey there, friends! You’re probably wondering how your good pal Deadpool ended up in such a sticky situation!

Well, it all started on a gorgeous Monday afternoon. The sun was shining on blushing red leaves, the turkey was defrosting — 

(Okay, fine, the turkey dinners were waiting in the freezer. But they were going to go into the _oven,_ not the microwave, because Wade and Peter were _real adults.)_

— and Wade's teeny, tiny super-spider boyfriend bounced on the bed, industrial-sized tub o’ lube in hand, clad only in an ear-to-ear grin.

That’s right, folks. It was Canadian Thanksgiving, and Wade was about to get _stuffed._

His baby boy thrummed with nervous anticipation. No matter how many times Wade reassured him, Peter was still adorably reluctant to hurt Wade in the ways he really wanted to be hurt. 

Wade, admittedly, found this charming. It gave him an ooey gooey feeling deep in his jellies to know someone cared about him that much; warmed him right down to his cockles to imagine Spidey standing guard over his tragic corpse, a single, heroic tear rolling out from under the mask. And don’t even get Wade started on the part where Spidey swept him off his feet (well, stubs, sometimes) and took him home to put unicorn bandaids on the places where his ouchies had already healed. 

A man could get used to that kind of treatment (and then a man could get fed up with his job as a human SHIELD for SHIELD, and then a man wouldn’t be able to keep his little funbun in teevee dinners and grad school tuition, but that was a whole ‘nother problem for another day).

No, the problem was that every time he tried to reassure Peter that it was okay to be a little meaner, he got a baleful eye and a, “yes, I _know_ you lost an arm just last week, I was _there_ and I’m still having some _feelings_ over it,” and then instead of ouchie funtimes they had to have softest-blanky-in-the-house snuggle times. Which were also _totally awesome._

But…

(don’t tell baby-cakes…)

_Wade’s masochistic side was starting to get a little sexually frustrated._

It wasn’t that he didn’t like being the big mean domly-dom himself, either! Covering that sweet little face with tears and that perfect little ass with bruises was one of Wade’s favorite things! He just dreamed, sometimes, of an arrangement that was a teeny bit more ‘I’ll bruise your butt, and you bruise mine.’

And sure, he had a hall pass for a more-than-generous number of people in the greater New York area (more-than-generous as in there were way more people on that list than would actually be generous enough to fuck him). But Colossus was, if anything, gentler than Peter, and Wolvie-poo wasn’t talking to him again this year, and Future-Daddy wasn’t picking up his phone which probably meant he was in the year 3000 and about to come back as a sullen teen or some bullshit, and the last time he’d hooked up with Domino she’d copycatfished him and turned out to be Vanessa which was, like, _even better,_ except then she went and stabbed him and that had been a _teeny, tiny_ bit kinkier than he’d signed up for.

Anyway, all his very special people had their very special places in his life — it wasn’t like they were interchangeable. Wade wanted _Petey_ to hurt him. Wade could see he had it in him, would catch that dangerous flash in his eyes every once in a while when he got sassed too far, or when Wade made just the right little wounded noise. He’d felt the just-too-hard flex around his wrists before Peter caught himself and got flustered and apologized and kissed it better. Wade wasn’t gonna push, but he was sure as hell gonna try to sweet talk that little spider-sadist out of hiding.

All of this to say, getting Peter excited about turning Wade into a hand-puppet was a promising start in the right direction! And, oh, Peter _was_ excited.

“You’re sure I’m not gonna hurt you?” he asked, trying to hide a wiggle, and Wade’s inner damsel-in-distress swooned a little at the consideration.

Wade chucked him under the chin. “No more than is fun for both of us, jelly bean.” It took every ounce of self-restraint not to flop backwards on the bed, fling his legs open, and gasp, _‘Take me now, baby! Lovingly fuck me the hell up!’_

Okay, maybe that was _exactly_ what he did.

With a grin, Peter followed him down, lifting one of Wade’s legs to kiss from arch to ankle to calf. As he whispered sweet nothings to the scars on the inside of Wade’s knee, Wade sighed. He just loved a guy who made him feel dainty. And Petey always did, tracing the scars down his thigh with his tongue, kissing wet _‘I love you’s_ against Wade’s hip as his clever fingers inched their way back.

It blew Wade’s mind how quickly Peter could get him worked up, until he was in danger of premature lift-off from nothing more than a wet mouth on his hip and a few loving caresses across the ole dirt road. He may have had his desires and his fantasies, but even if Peter-the-Top never did find his Dommy Pants, Wade would never, _ever_ get tired of being in his bed.

They both relaxed at the _schlick_ of Petey’s petite fingers meeting the surface of the finest butt-lube a mercenary budget could buy. This wasn’t anything new — this was just Peter, using his hands to make Wade feel good. Just… a little bit _more_ of his hands than usual.

Everything was going great — more than great. It was hand turkey day in kindergarten and Petey was, as always, the star pupil. 

Four out of five little pilgrims achieved a hostile takeover of Wade’s Plymouth Rock before Peter's nerve faltered. He licked his lips, glanced nervously up at Wade. “You’re still _really_ tight, babe.”

“Healing factor,” Wade swooned. “Like a virgin for you, stud muffin. You can just punch your way through if you wanna, but if you’re feeling patient, just take your time. She’ll turn over for ya.”

“Do other people just… punch their way through?” 

Wade mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key. (wait, could they find a way for Peter to _literally lock his mouth shut?_ Sign him the _fuck_ up.)

Peter set his jaw in that adorable ‘other people have hurt you and I’m not going to be one of them!’ way and tucked his thumb, giving the sweetest, gentlest little push. Wade, being a kind and caring partner with exceptional emotional boundaries, fought a frantic and losing battle to avoid any-and-all thoughts of Cable and the last time he’d ‘punched his way through’ with his techno-organic fist.

Look, a little fantasy was a healthy and normal part of any couple’s sex life, okay?

It was nice, though, the care Peter took in working him open. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and he tried to blink them away before he freaked his baby out.

“You okay?”

Wade was a fool to think he could slip anything by eight adoring spider eyes. 

“Yeah,” he rasped. “It’s just… really intimate, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Wade grasped for Peter’s free hand, dragging it to his sternum. “Give me a little weight?” he asked, and Peter leaned into him, just enough to constrict his breathing a little, just enough to remind him that he was pinned under a palm strong enough to stop a semi-truck, and Wade went limp.

And in that long, still moment, the widest part of Peter’s fist slipped in, and Peter leaned into it, and then Wade’s body was closing tight around his wrist.

“Fuck,” Peter whispered, and his eyes flicked to Wade’s face, and he giggled. _“Fuck.”_

Wade would have found it hilarious how top-high his baby-top had suddenly gotten, if he wasn’t, himself, already on the goddamn moon. He slurred, “Feel so good in me, babe.”

He shuddered as things shifted, and then Peter’s lips were soft on his cheeks, at the corners of his eyes. He blinked up at Peter, who murmured, awestruck, “You were crying.”

“Oh,” said Wade. “It’s kinda hot, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I might be… kinda into it.”

Then, because Wade was giddy and he had no sense of self-preservation (and because that spider-sadist still needed some wooing), he said, “So, ya gonna do anything with that hand, or you just using my asshole as some new-fangled treatment for dry and damaged cuticles?”

Peter’s brow quirked _(challenge accepted)_ and then he showed Wade _exactly_ what he intended to do with it. (and with his other hand… and with his mouth… and with his… )

Wade thought he was gonna get tonsillitis, Peter fisted him so good. And his boy didn’t neglect the reach-around, polishing Wade’s cock with a slick hand until, overstimulated, Wade pawed at him to stop. And then he actually did, which was a little disappointing, because being jerked off until he actually went blind was something that Wade very much wanted to experience with Peter at some point in their relationship, but it was also a goddamn relief to catch his breath for a moment. 

Needless to say, Wade was having a _great_ Thanksgiving.

Peter slumped half on top of him, petting idly at his chest. Wade snagged that questing hand in his, kissing the inside of Peter’s wrist. He raised his head at the choked-out little moan he got in return.

“Sorry,” Peter gasped. “Just, extra sensitive.”

“Ya think?” Wade glanced pointedly at his own straining, overworked cock. He turned Peter’s arm this way and that, running his thumb gently over the near-invisible slit camouflaged among the flexor tendons. Peter shuddered. “You never let me play with these, little spider.”

Peter buried his face against Wade’s tummy. “Dey’re gropth,” he mumbled.

“They’re not gross,” Wade corrected. “They’re _cool,”_ and then he stroked Peter’s spinneret a little bit harder, and Peter jerked and his fist shifted enticingly inside Wade, and Wade’s thumb clenched, the tip just pressing in.

 _“Fuck,”_ gasped Peter.

Wade pulled his thumb back to the _outside_ of Peter, squeezing reassuringly. “Sorry, sorry! No touchie.” He felt Peter respond against his skin. “What’s that, baby bug?”

“I-said-you-can-keep-going-if-you-want.”

_Oh._

Well.

He’d finally gotten Peter to open up his alluring little web holes, and all it took was a tender, loving punch to the colon. All in all, a win-win for one Wade Wilson.

And a win for Peter, too, because it was a little-known fact that Wade gave _great_ web. The lightest of strokes and the most careful of touches, and Peter trembled against him. His hips pressed restlessly into the bed as Wade slowly but surely deepened his strokes.

With all the solemnity suitable to the occasion (which is to say, humming the _Jaws_ theme while Peter whined, _‘Waaade’_ ), Wade brought Peter’s wrist to his lips. Peter sobbed at the first swipe of tongue on spider snatch. Carefully — so, so carefully — Wade licked at the forbidden fruit, chasing that seductive hint of bitter musk until the tip of his tongue went a little numb. Hmm. Was that normal? Well, didn’t matter — Wade was in it to win it. They didn’t call him a ‘cunning linguist’ for nothin’. 

“W-wade, that’s r-really sensiti — omigod.”

“Yeah?” purred Wade, pulling back just far enough to ensure that his words were hot against Peter’s delicate little fuckhole. He ran his tongue lightly up the seam. “You like it when I stroke it just like that?”

The sheets rustled by Wade’s knee as Peter rutted fast into the bed, his fist practically vibrating inside Wade. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit.”_

Wade — lacking a spidey-sense, but more than making up for it with a finely honed bukkake sense — pulled back and to the side just in time. He rubbed a final, firm line up the tender slit, watching in fascination as a dollop of spidey-batter spooged out and hit his bedside lamp with a _crack._ (Oops. Worth it.) 

“Holy fuckballs, baby boy, that was _awesome.”_

They slumped down on the bed, catching their breath. Peter grinned dopily, then shifted, then — 

“Uh, babe?”

Wade’s head shot up at his tone. “…what? What’s wrong?”

“…I think I’m… stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“I think,” he looked like he was going to be sick, “I think both of them went off? And the other one was. Um.”

The other one was _inside Wade._

Okay. Okay, they could work with this. Ass bondage. Ass bondage was _totally_ a thing, like that little fruit-shaped medival torture device thingy. Those were probably expensive, and they didn’t even have to _buy_ one — his boyfriend came with one just _built in._ Wade was the luckiest guy in the world!

He chuckled nervously.

“Okay, so how long does this pear-of-sexy-anguish last, then?”

Peter blinked. “Pair of — ? Um. A few hours, usually?” At Wade’s face, he hastened to add, “But the natural webs dissolve faster in moist conditions, so maybe an hour or two …approximately.”

Funny how, if you’d asked Wade twenty minutes ago how he’d feel about his delightfully sweet twunk of a boyfriend holding him down and forcing him to take a fist for two hours, he would have been over-the-moon. But now, with his sweetum’s face pinched with worry and the choice _actually_ taken away from them both, Wade was reconsidering. 

“Okay,” yup, that sure was a fist up his ass, and it _sure wasn’t going anywhere,_ “okay, we can just. Um. Wait it out?”

“Yeah!” said Peter, artificially bright. “It’s not like we were about to stop playing. So we can just… keep… playing.”

“Exactly! It’s kinda hot!”

“Super hot!”

Wade’s stupid, rude heart thudded obnoxiously in his ears.

“Or. Hear me out. You could just… pull. Super hard.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “No.”

“No, you totally could! Just do it fast. Like ripping off a bandaid!”

“Your rectum is not a bandaid! I’m not doing that.”

“Okay, but…” Wade's breath came faster, and with it the sudden, heavy realization of just how much funhe was _not_ having. “Look, I might be getting close to a _red_ on this whole situation, okay? I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

“Well, I’m a _red_ on ripping your asshole out through your asshole!”

They glared at each other.

Peter sighed. “We could, um, call someone? Stark’s been in more embarrassing situations, and he’s _sure_ to have something — ”

 _“Nope,”_ snapped Wade _(“Stop wiggling,” hissed Peter)_ , “that one’s a hard no for me,” maybe if he flopped off the bed hard enough he could rip his _own_ asshole out, “that man’s coming nowhere _near_ my — ”

“Stop. Moving.”

Peter’s voice cracked through the room. Time froze as Wade’s brain shot past the moon, straight up the rainbow bridge, and all the way to Assgard. He was _gone._

“Sorry, sir,” he slurred.

“G-good boy.” Peter’s voice trembled, but Wade barely noticed as he sank. “You’re gonna take it for me, yeah?”

Wade shook his head, panic returning. “I can’t, I’m sorry, sir, I _can’t.”_

Peter’s eyes widened momentarily, and then he pressed his hand to Wade’s chest, pinning him into the mattress. “You can, and you will. You know why?” Wade did not, but he found himself really, really wanting to. “Because I said so.”

_Oh._

DeePee has left the building. Wade-no-more. Subspace: The Final Frontier. 

“ ‘m sorry, sir. Thank you.”

“Mmhmm.” Peter leaned down to suck up the tip of Wade’s half-soft cock, mouthing at the loose skin, flicking his tongue over the sensitive head. Too much, _too much,_ Wade wanted to writhe away but he was pinned tight between Peter’s hands like the pathetic grub he was. Peter lifted his head, and Wade let out a gasp as his lungs came back online. “What do we say?”

Well, not much of _anything,_ if Peter was going to keep doing that thing with his tongue. But Peter had stopped doing that thing, and Wade’s brain cleared just enough to gasp, “Thank you, sir.”

And then Peter didn’t let him think much at all.

Time slowed and stretched and sped up all at once as Peter worked him up once, twice, three times. Blood pounded in Wade’s ears, tightening his body around Peter’s fist with every hard beat, tinging his vision with glorious red. He babbled in tongues.

“Yeah?”

Yes, sir. Yes, whatever you want. _Anything._

“You wanna come?” 

Wade wanted to come more than he’d ever wanted anything in his entire life. More than he wanted Taco Tuesday, or the Hope Diamond, or that rocket launcher that Weas was definitely holding out on him. He’d trade all the rocket launchers in the world for an orgasm. “Please, sir! If I don’t blow webs in the next two minutes, I’ll literally _die_.”

Peter’s lips quirked. “Then perish.”

Oh em gee, could Wade’s tiny Dom be more perfect? Wade moaned in pained bliss. 

Peter kissed his hip. “If you’re very,” _smooch,_ “extra,” _smooch,_ “good, I may consider letting you come. Once I’m done with you.”

And then Wade remembered Peter’s fist, and that Peter was _stuck,_ and that he was _glued to mean-dom Peter with no way to safeword and no hope of escape for at least another hour._

The tears that welled up were pure Thanksgiving gratitude.

  
  
  
  


An hour or two of fun later (approximately), Wade was finally extricated with a minimum of skin loss. Peter was so, so sweet as he hustled them into a warm shower. He stiffened when Wade reached for him, but let himself be pulled under the water, burying his face in Wade’s shoulder while Wade wrapped languid soapy hands around them both until they were stupid with it.

Peter made a valiant and earnest offer to cook, which Wade firmly declined (call him boring, but he preferred his food edible and his kitchen _not_ on fire). Instead, Wade made pancakes, because _Canada,_ and _gratitude,_ and _Peter had apparently thrown out those teevee dinners while Wade wasn’t looking, they’re horrible and you_ know _it, Wade._

Peter flitted around underfoot, dipping in for soft kisses when he could, or keeping himself at Wade’s side with solicitous hands on the small of Wade’s back, or his shoulders, or his neck.

And say what you will about Wade’s judgement, but when he was right, he was _right._ If sweet, adoring boyfriend Peter was a-fucking-mazing, attentive aftercare Dom Peter was _even fucking better._ Those darling affections were ten times as sweet when Wade was all loosey-goosey from being mean-dommed to tears by his sweetie-boo.

Wade hovered on cloud nine all through dinner. His brainmeats — usually aggressive, stubborn little fuckers — were cooler than a cucumber in a snowstorm. He hummed a happy little service song as he did the dishes, finding a peaceful satisfaction in finishing the job of providing sustenance for his mean little babycakes.

That was probably why it took longer than it should have to notice that the kitchen had gone quiet.

“Petey?”

The closed bedroom door caught his eye.

Uh oh.

“Pete?” he called, nudging the door open. Peter whirled around, swiping at red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh! Babe! I was just… I was just, um.”

Wade opened his arms. “Baby boy, come the fuck here.” He pulled Peter close, bundling them both up onto the bed.

“I’m sorry,” sniffled Peter. “I shouldn’t be — I don’t know why I’m — ” 

Rocking them both, Wade kissed the top of his head. “I'm sorry, baby. Didn’t even think about aftercaring you. We both had a big day, huh? Pretty normal to be freaking out right about now.”

Peter sucked in a wet breath. “But you’re the one who got hurt. It’s your turn to have the freakout.”

“I had the freakout all afternoon,” Wade said, reasonably. “You can have it for a while now.”

“Don’t deserve it,” Peter mumbled into his shirt. Aw, baby, _no._

“You wanna tell me about that?”

“I hurt you.” 

There was a whine in Peter’s voice that Wade would un-alive a _whole lot_ of people to make all better. Even if expressing that sentiment would do the _opposite_ of making it better. He chose his next words carefully.

“You didn’t hurt me, baby boy. Something not-fun happened, and it was nobody’s fault, and it sucked for both of us.”

“But you were still hurting, and it was because of me, and — ” Peter’s breath hitched. “And I liked it,” he whispered in a rush.

Wade ran his fingers through Peter’s hair. “I like hurting you, and you like that I like it. You like it a _lot.”_

“No but…” Peter’s face wilted with shame. “You were _done,_ you wanted to be done, and you couldn’t be, and I made you keep going, and… and I liked that.”

“Sweet boy, I hate to break it to you, but you might be a sadist.”

“I c-can't be a sadist! I'm _Spider-Man.”_

Wade tried not to laugh. He really, truly did.

“Shut up,” fussed Peter.

“I’m sorry,” Wade chuckled, “it’s just… your hobby is to dress up in spandex and punch people in the face, and you’re questioning your morality because you got your jollies off pushing around your _very_ consenting boyfriend?”

Peter sighed heavily. “That’s the other thing, though.” 

His hand tightened around Wade’s waist, a furtive clench, as if he was sure that this was his last chance to do it, as if there was _anything_ he could say that would make Wade send him away. Wade had to lean in close to hear him.

“I used the Spider-Man voice on you.”

“What’d’ya mean?”

“The voice when… when I’m Spider-Man, and I have to tell people what to do.”

“Ooooh. Triage voice. I knew it sounded familiar.”

“No, but, it wasn’t.” Wade tipped his head, and Peter sighed. “It was the _bad guy_ voice. For when…”

_Oh._

Wade blinked. “You used the _you’d better do what I tell you, or else_ Spidey voice.”

Peter nodded, and his shoulders hitched, and even though Wade was suddenly hard enough to pound nails, he had a baby boy who needed him. So he got his goddamn shit together. 

He slid to his knees by the side of the bed, tipping Peter’s chin until their eyes met. “Okay, so, first of all, it’s very important that you hear and understand that the idea of you using the Spider-Man _bad guy_ voice on me is so indescribably hot that my legs have gone numb and I’m pretty sure I just knocked up our next door neighbor.” 

Peter’s nose wrinkled. Disgust! Disgusted was a marked improvement from inconsolable!

“I’m not mad at you. I _liked_ it. A _lot._ Do you believe me?”

After a long, searching look, Peter nodded.

“Second of all, just because I liked it, doesn’t mean you have to like it. If it makes you feel gross, we shouldn’t do it. But mayyyybe you’d be a happier sadist if we started just a teeny, tiny bit slower. I bet you’d feel more comfy getting off on me saying ‘no, please, stop’ instead of ‘please, sir, make my insides my outsides.’ ”

Peter winced, then blinked. “You want to do it again?”

“Abso-diddly-dokie! I don’t want you to be afraid of sexy-mean times because of this, okay? Things went wrong, but then you took charge and made ‘em right. Like… _came-so-hard-my-nose-bled_ right. I needed my Spider-Dom to be the big strong hero and tell me what to do, and you _did._ I’d have to be nuts not to want to do that again. I mean, uh, more nuts. A different kind of nuts? Like the ones you get at Christmas, not the — ”

Peter hugged him suddenly, pulling him half up from his spot on the floor with a little too much vigor. Wade felt his rib pop, but his delicate spider-baby did _not_ need to know that. It was a dislocated rib of _love._

“Do you really think I’m a sadist?” Peter whispered against his neck.

“Well, I sure-as-heck hope so!” Wade beamed. “Because Cable still isn’t picking up his goddamn phone.”

Peter sat back, and Wade fell back on his heels with a pained thump. “Wait. He isn’t going to come back from the year 3000 as a moody teen again, is he?”

Wade huffed. “He better not. I’m not waiting fifty years for him to grow back into those Daddy vibes.”

And then he froze, and Peter’s eyes went wide, because that word _(the ‘D’ word)_ was still so very new, and to certain itsy bitsies in this household, so deliciously _humiliating._

Peter’s grabby little hands twitched, and Wade scooped him into a princess carry. He cooed, “That’s right, Baby-Dom. Let Daddypool take care of everything.”

“Gross,” whined Peter against his neck, and, “Put me down, I can walk on my own,” but his hand clenched in Wade’s shirt.

Wade laughed, delighted. “C'mon, good boy. Let's go do aftercare at each other on the couch.”

Soon, Daddypool had them ensconced on the couch with giant bowls of maple crunch gelato as he cued up the _Cat Burglars Holiday Special_ _(“This Christmas, It’s Purrsonal”)_

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Peter mumbled. “Can we try again next year?”

Wade kissed the side of his head. “Someone’s getting a goddamn bale of gloves for Hanukkah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't gotten inside my boy DP's brainmeats in too long. Feels good, man.
> 
> You can like this thing [on my Tumblr,](https://waterme-stories.tumblr.com/post/631815938064384000/fist-bump-by-waterme/) I guess.


End file.
